Lunatics and Vampires
by pgrabia
Summary: House is having a very blue holiday season and it takes Wilson to save the day.  H/W slash, hurt/comfort. suicide ideation and pre-attempt; some angst, some fluff,spoilers for all seasons.  Reader discretion advised.


**Title: Lunatics and Vampires  
>Author: <strong>pgrabia  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Hurt/comfort; fluffy romance  
><strong>Characters:<strong> G. House, J. Wilson  
>Warnings: Spoilers for all seasons up to current (season 8); suicide ideation and pre-attempt<br>**Rating:** Strong PG-13/T

**Lunatics and Vampires**

House stood on the balcony, avoiding the hospital Holiday party like he usually did. It was unseasonably warm, and in his leather jacket over a sweater he was quite comfortable, not that that really mattered to him. Comfort had always been a transient thing for him and since the infarction he'd forgotten what it was like to be truly comfortable.

He leaned against the stone half-wall that kept him from falling off the balcony and plummeting to the concrete four stories below. He'd left Wilson to the wiles of half-drunk nurses trying, as usual, to get him into bed and Wilson flirting back because that was what he did. Wilson was one of the most flirtatious people House knew—for the oncologist it was the same as breathing. It was great when he was flirting back and forth with House in fun, not so great when House had to watch him do it with eager women, most half-drunk, practically hanging off of him.

He swirled his drink in the paper cup, watching the spiked punch slosh against the sides before lifting the cup to his lips and drinking deeply. House wasn't a fan of the holiday season, but there were a few exceptions. Almost two years ago House had been having dinner with Cuddy, and Rachel, watching Cuddy helped Rachel light and blowout the candles on the menorah. Despite the rocky shape of their relationship at that point, Cuddy had been happy and content that evening, and he had also been in a good mood. Sure, he had missed spending the holidays with Wilson as was their tradition, but he'd allowed himself just a sliver of hope that he would no longer be alone with Cuddy, and if he hadn't felt happy, then he at least hadn't been miserable.

It wasn't that he missed Cuddy anymore. He'd been over her for a long time already, starting the day he stood before the judge to enter his plea and she had been more than willing to enter a victim impact statement that had painted him as a wife beater by the time she was done; all he'd needed was a tight white shirt to complete the image in the judge's mind. When the bailiffs had led him out of the courtroom to his holding cell after sentencing, she had cast him a hateful scowl laced with a cold, vindictive smirk. He'd wondered then and still wondered now how he ever could have deluded himself into thinking that she had really loved him for him. Of all the stupid mistakes he'd made in his life, House considered trusting Lisa Cuddy and becoming involved with her right up there with the most moronic of them.

Many times since then House had wished he'd sent her away that night after the crane collapse instead of believing her delusions and allowing her to capture his soul in a strangle hold. He knew that what he'd done to end up in prison had been horrendously wrong, that not even Cuddy had deserved to have her house destroyed by a drugged up, jealousy-driven lunatic. That was perhaps the worst part, the fact that he hadn't deserved her, hadn't deserved Wilson, hadn't deserved to be loved by anyone, and still didn't.

He finished his punch and then threw the paper cup over the stone wall and watched it as it fell to the ground below, nearly hitting a nurse on the head. Nearly; his luck was not getting any better.

House rubbed absently at his ruined thigh. It didn't really hurt all that badly thanks to the extra Vicodin he'd taken, combined with the alcohol. Rubbing it was more habit than anything else. It was a way of reminding him of the moment his life had forked off the main path and slowly but surely turned to crap.

He was tired of it all, so very tired.

His hand inched along the wall until his pinky touched cold steel. Wilson had bought the lie that the gun he'd found wasn't real. If he'd known the truth he would have worried and fretted about House, still technically a convict, possessing a gun and lectured him about how dangerous it was to even own one, even if it had been John House's service pistol. House hadn't kept it out of sentimentality; he didn't miss the old bastard one bit and had actually felt a twinge of relief when word had come that the man who had raised him had died. No, House had known that someday having a gun would be useful, and it really was a fine piece; John had shown it more love than he ever had him.

Picking up the gun, House held it before him almost reverently. Shooting oneself was a boring way to die, but shooting oneself and falling over the edge of the balcony to splatter on the pavement below? Now, that was a little more interesting. Actually, driving his motorcycle over the edge of a cliff in a blaze of glory would have been the coolest way, but one couldn't always get what one wanted, and this way would fulfill what he needed, at least.

House climbed onto the stone barrier, allowing both legs to dangle over the side. It would almost be a pity that he would miss that exhilaration of plummeting to the earth that he'd enjoyed so much when he'd jumped from that hotel balcony into the pool, but he wanted to make certain that he didn't experience any pain when his body made contact with concrete at terminal velocity. A bullet in the brain in the right spot would cause instantaneous, painless death. He hoped.

The only regret he had at this point was the pain it would cause Wilson when he found out. That pain, however, would only be temporary and then there would be no more pain in his life caused by Gregory House. True, House would never have the chance to tell Wilson just how much he loved and wanted him, but chances were he would never end up doing that anyway; besides, Wilson didn't return his feelings, it wouldn't be as devastating for him as had been losing a lover, like Amber. His best friend could finally move on and find happiness and friendships that weren't harmful and incredibly dysfunctional like Wilson's relationship with House was. He would be better off in the long run. Everybody would be.

There were other doctors in the world that could do what House did; not many, but they did exist. He wasn't irreplaceable as much as he had lied to himself that he was.

He checked the gun pointlessly; he knew that it was fully loaded and ready to go. Was this him hesitating? That was ridiculous; he'd thought this through carefully. This wasn't yet another impulsive act of temporary insanity or a social experiment or a test; not this time.

He moved his ass forward so that he was sitting on the very edge. He had to fall forward not backward. House lifted the gun and placed the barrel as far into his mouth as he could, his thumb on the trigger.

The world exploded around him and he felt himself falling.

When House landed it was on his left side, and the fall had only been three and a half feet. His hand hurt like a sonofabitch and the wind had been knocked out of him. His mind reeled at the unexpected and he gasped desperately for breath. Two strong arms were wrapped around him, holding him so tightly that he didn't know if his inability to catch his breath again was due to his spasming diaphragm or the bear hug from behind.

The voice murmuring 'oh my god' over and over again was Wilson's. House slowly began to breathe again, his chest aching along with his leg, side, and right wrist.

"Why?" Wilson whispered into the back of House's head. A few sniffles and a hiccup indicated that he was sobbing. "What the hell are you thinking, House? How could you try to take yourself away from me when I just got you back? What would have become of me if I hadn't stopped you and I would have been confronted with your body splattered on the fucking ground?"

House closed his eyes and exhaled a shuddering breath. "I'm tired, Wilson," was all he could manage to say. He simply didn't have the energy to push the younger man away. It felt so good to feel his arms around him, something that simply didn't happen between them any other time. House couldn't help but feel disappointed that Wilson had stopped him, and yet, knowing that Wilson was this affected by his near brush with death almost made House feel loved.

Wilson didn't respond immediately, but his sobbing was beginning to wane; his hold on House didn't weaken though.

"Why didn't you tell me you were feeling this way? With all the pranks and joking around…I thought things with you were getting better. When are you going to trust me enough to talk to me? What do I have to do to prove to you that I care?"

Releasing his hold on House long enough to roll him onto his back, Wilson sat up but leaned over him, ready to pin him to the concrete balcony floor if House so much as tried to move of his own volition. Looking up into Wilson's teary, red-rimmed eyes, his expression one of anger and heartbreak; House realized that he may have miscalculated the impact his death would have had on his best friend. Seeing Wilson hurting like this was bringing a lump to House's throat and a knot of guilt in his gut.

"You've suffered too much because of me," House told him, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're as addicted to me as I am to you—you would _never_ leave to save yourself. I'm tired of fucking up both of our lives. I'm a bastard who destroys everything and I'm never going to change. You deserve a better best friend than me. I wanted to set us both free." He averted his azure gaze from Wilson's.

"I don't want another best friend," Wilson told him, brushing tears off his face with one of his hands. "Yeah, you've caused me pain and aggravation in the past, but I'm no better. I've hurt and angered you, too. We've both fucked up, House. We deserve each other. Don't presume to decide for me who I should have in my life and who I shouldn't! You once told me that if I died you'd be alone. Well, the same is true for me. I could have successfully walked away hundreds of times if I had really wanted to but I didn't want to and I still don't. Do you know why?"

For the life of him, House didn't.

He still lay on the cold balcony floor, still avoided Wilson's gaze, looking instead for his gun. Wilson had knocked it out of his hand and grabbed him before he could throw himself over the side. He spied it after a second or two, lying next to the wall that separated his balcony from Wilson's. Beyond the barrier House could see that Wilson's balcony door remained open. Wilson had seen him through the door, jumped the wall and stopped his suicide all while catching House completely off guard. Of course, House's mind had been quite preoccupied at the time.

"House?" Wilson said, grabbing House's chin and turning his face toward him. "Look at me."

House furtively met Wilson's eyes, which were still glistening, though he was no longer sobbing. Wilson captured his gaze and held it.

"Answer my question. Do you know why I haven't left for good and whenever I did try I couldn't stick it out and had to come back?"

"Because you're a masochist and an emotional vampire who feeds upon my misery and neediness?" House returned, raising an eyebrow and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in spite of the severity of his words.

Wilson smiled knowingly. "Aside from that."

Shaking his head, House answered softly, "No."

It was Wilson's turn to shake his head; his hand came to cup House's cheek, his thumb brushing House's cheekbone. The beating of House's heart sped up, and his stomach swooped pleasantly. Wilson had never touched him this way before. Was it possible he had also miscalculated the odds of his best friend reciprocating his feelings?

"Well," Wilson whispered, leaning downward, his face drawing closer to House's, "I'll give you a hint."

And then Wilson's lips were gently caressing House's lips and it was so much better than House had ever dreamt it would be, and he'd dreamt of what it would be like to be kissed by Wilson many, many times over the years. It was tender and sweet and evoked more emotion than it did lust, though desire was certainly there, too. When Wilson pulled back after an indeterminate amount of time, he smiled down at House lovingly. House was left breathless. His hand rose to hold Wilson behind his neck and pull him back into another kiss, one that was deeper and more passionate and yet just as emotional. Wilson buried the fingers of one hand in House's hair while the other ran up and down House's side. House tentatively licked Wilson's bottom lip. Wilson moaned softly and opened his mouth enough for House to slip his tongue inside. He ran it along Wilson's tongue, caress-like, before exploring Wilson's entire mouth, mapping it out and burning the information into his memory in case this never happened again.

They parted for breath, their faces still no more than a couple of inches apart. House didn't want to question Wilson's motivations, but he couldn't help it.

"Why now? Why didn't you do this before now?"

Wilson smirked. "You think I'm only kissing you because I'm trying to keep you from killing yourself? I'll be honest—seeing you trying to commit suicide was a great motivator to finally tell you the truth, but I was going to tell you anyway, I was just trying to figure out how to go about it. I realized in those few seconds that you couldn't have figured out yet that I loved you if you were ready to die and leave me all alone. For being a genius, you can be pretty blind and dense sometimes."

There was no way House could argue with that. Why hadn't he seen through Wilson's lectures and conniptions and irrational loyalty to him to realize the motivation behind it all? Wasn't he supposed to be the one who could read people like no one else?

"Wilson?"

"Yes, House?"

"My back is freezing and my leg is cramping up," House told him. "Let me up."

It was obvious that it hadn't occurred to Wilson that it might be cold and uncomfortable for House lying on the concrete. He scrambled to his feet and then offered House a hand up. Ordinarily, House would have ignored the offer of help and stubbornly struggled to get up on his own. However, lying on the cold balcony floor had caused all of his muscles to stiffen up, not just his thigh, so help was welcomed. He grabbed Wilson's proffered hand and allowed Wilson to help him to his feet. His best friend didn't release his hand once he was up on his feet.

"Please don't ever try anything that stupid again," Wilson told him. "I love you."

House pulled Wilson into an embrace and whispered into his wonderful smelling hair. "Promise me this isn't just a ploy to keep me from trying again."

"I promise," Wilson assured him.

House pulled back enough to press his lips against Wilson's ear and kiss it before whispering. "I love you, too—and you're still a masochist and emotional vampire."

"And you're a selfish, misanthropic bastard with a penchant for impulsive, self-destructive behavior. Like I said, we deserve each other. Now let's go inside where it's warm and pick up where we left off, hm?"

House grinned against his neck and kissed it a couple of times before asking, "What about the gun?"

"You mean the one you told me was _fake_?" Wilson asked pointedly, tilting his head to expose more of his neck to the ministrations of House's talented lips and tongue. "I'll call security from the car and tell them where to find it."

"And you're not going to rat me out to Foreman and have me admitted for a psych evaluation?" House inquired before gently biting the spot where Wilson's neck met his shoulder, eliciting a groan of appreciation from him.

"Tomorrow," Wilson told him, only half-joking. "Tonight I plan on giving you plenty of reason never to think about trying to hurt yourself again."

"Atta boy, teach me a lesson," House said, finding Wilson's mouth with his own and plying it with small kisses, "'cause…I've been a…bad…bad…boy…."

They kissed feverishly. When they parted, Wilson went over to the gun and picked it up by the barrel.

"Be careful," House warned him. "It's loaded and the safety is off."

Wilson engaged the safety again before wiping it down with his shirt and dropping it onto his side of the balcony.

"I'll tell them I talked down a lunatic who had just received a grim diagnosis," Wilson informed House as he returned to him and grabbed House's hand. He led him into House's office, shutting and locking the door behind them.

"Why don't we head for your place?" Wilson suggested. Of course, they couldn't go back to the loft because House's ankle bracelet would signal that he wasn't at home and the police would be dispatched to pick him up and take him into custody. "I have a gift I'd like you to unwrap when we get there."

House frowned, confused. "I don't need a gift. What is it?"

Wilson grinned from ear to ear, wrapping his arms around House's neck. "Me."

_**~fin~**_


End file.
